When I was 18 years old, in a more innocent time, my first backpacking trip through Europe, I sneaked into the Temple of Saturn in the Roman Forum after nightfall and spent several hours in there avoiding the guards patrolling.

Writing is never, ever easy but I wake up every morning grateful for the gift of being able to do this.

Dave hung up. And unplugged the phone. With a fierce and bitter pain he stared at it, watching how, over and over again, it didn't ring.

Eanna love us, Adaon preserve us, Morian guard our souls.

As many have noted, the peril for authors is that our work space is too easily our play space.

Words were power, words tried to change you, to shape bridges of longing that no one could ever really cross.

There was some sadness in how that could happen, Tai thought: falling out of love with something that had shaped you. Or even people who had? But if you didn't change at least a little, where were the passages of a life? Didn't learning, changing, sometimes mean letting go of what had once been seen as true?